


Carrier Pigeons

by confusedkayt



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-24
Updated: 2011-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:14:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedkayt/pseuds/confusedkayt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-First Class.  They aren't quite visitors. This isn't quite a reconciliation. What it might be, just maybe, is a start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carrier Pigeons

**Author's Note:**

> This features a loosely-interpreted Meggan (more on her [here.](http://x-men.wikia.com/wiki/Meggan) ) Also, the Erik/Charles is entirely offscreen but heavily implied, in case that's not your cup of tea!

Something is very wrong.

It’s familiar, of course, the hard diamond edges that can only mean Emma Frost and the frightening featureless void that means Erik has put in an appearance, and… someone else, someone so frightened, so angry… It’s chaotic, enough to fill the house, fill his head and he’d better force that into the back compartments of his mind because there are heavy steps on his stairs.

The fact that he’s dropped his teacup, shards of china on the floor and the blanket over his lap sopping wet, hardly registers. He wants to believe that they aren’t here to do him harm, but… Well, he’s not as naïve as Erik has always liked to pretend. Erik. He’s here, God knows why, and well-defended.

 _We aren’t here to hurt you,_ and the noisy echo of Emma’s diamond-clad projection is less than reassuring on that score. _We’re here… Well._

And then they are in the study and it’s a good thing that teacup is already out of the way because it’s not Erik, not at all – the red one, the teleporter, Azazel, wearing that hateful helmet in his stead, holding a thrashing child… She’s small, can’t be more than eight or nine, clawing against Azazel’s implacable strength. Impossible, not to see the red weals, stark against shaved patches of her furry arms where needles must have been for a long time, impossible not to hear the blank terror pouring out of her.

“She was found at a facility,” and Charles does not need his gift to read the anger in the harsh Russian consonants. “Her family – Travelers. They are long gone.”

A pause, as though Charles is expected to muster some sort of reply. _Hello,_ he sends, and who can blame him for the dollop of calm he wraps around that word. _I’m Charles Xavier. What’s your name?_

The girl stills in Azazel’s hold, turns to stare at him. He maneuvers a bit closer and Azazel’s hands tighten, undoing whatever progress Charles has made. He holds up placating hands and sends another suggestion of calm and still and safe rolling over the girl. Her struggles cease and he inches forward again, offers a hand. “Hello,” he says, out loud this time.

Azazel watches carefully as the girl tentatively reaches out to grasp the offered hand. “I’m Meggan,” and oh, poor thing, somewhere along the line she’s screamed herself raw.

“Pleased to meet you,” he says and she’s more relaxed now, naturally, even without any further nudges.

Azazel gives them both an assessing sort of look and then he’s setting his squirming burden down with surprising gentleness, pretending not to notice the way the girl hunches away from him, against Charles and his chair. “He said you would give her shelter.”

“Of course,” Charles says, voice carefully mild. “You can stay here if you’d like, Meggan. We have plenty of room.” _Hank,_ he calls, and Emma swivels her head at him. _Hank, we have a visitor who I would like you to meet. My study, please, but don’t come in until I say._

She’s thinking it over, the girl, and as she thinks she _ripples,_ so painfully like Raven, her fur shortening, taking a turn from grey to golden. “All right,” she whispers, staring at the floor. Her thoughts are a jumbled mess - _At least he looks right, seems nice, not so scary, big house, easy to run_.

Azazel gives a sharp nod and just like that he’s gone. Emma is still there. He ignores her as best he can, focusing on the shivering child. “I would like you to meet my friend Hank. He lives here as well.” _Hank, if you could come in please. And please – she’s not a threat. I need you to appear calm._

The door opens, normal speed, good lad, Hank. Charles is listening sharply, so he hears the indrawn breath that hisses too fast between his sharp teeth but he thinks – hopes – that Meggan doesn’t catch it. Still, she ripples as Hank approaches, golden given way in favor of a distinctly bluish grey. “Hank, this is Meggan. Erik has sent her to stay with us.”

“Hello, Meggan,” Hank offers in an admirably even voice, taking the girl’s offered hand delicately.

Her eyes are saucer-wide, but she hasn’t relinquished her grip on Hank. Good. That’s good. “Hank, would you be so kind as to help Meggan find a room, and perhaps help her find her way around the grounds?” Hank meets his eyes sharply and Charles smiles as blandly as he can. “I’ll entertain our other guest.”

Hank taps a temple with his free hand. “Call if you need me.”

“Thank you.”

Hank gives him one last dubious look, then shakes himself gently. “Would you like to come with me?” and god bless Hank’s uncertainty, because the fact that he’s _asking_ has calmed Meggan a further few degrees.

“All right,” she says, follows Hank’s lead on shaky legs.

The door clicks shut behind them, and Emma immediately crosses her arms, draws herself up to her full height. Well, then. “I don’t suppose you’d care for some tea?”

 _Excuse me?_

“I can also offer you brandy. If you want anything else, we’ll have to make a kitchen run.”

Emma snorts, a fascinating, echoing sort of sound. _No thank you,_ she says, civilly enough. _Azazel will be back any minute._

“Ah.” The pause is uncomfortable in the extreme, and he is evidently going to have to be the one to break it. “Well, thank you, I suppose.”

Emma shrugs, sending little reflections cascading from her shoulder. _It was his idea._

“Well, thank you all the same.” He resists the urge to brush at his lap, still woefully damp. “This house is always open to you,” and if that’s not quite the truth, it certainly holds for errands of this nature.

A distinctive pop heralds Azazel’s return, this time without the helmet. Charles nods at him, carefully folding his hands in his lap. He takes unceremonious hold of Emma.

 _Goodbye,_ Charles almost says but, well, it’s foolish, so foolish, but he wants… “Please send my love to Erik and Raven.”

Azazel looks at him sharply, almost enough to distract from the harsh sounds of Emma’s mental voice. _Your regards?_

“My love,” he says, firmly, and Azazel returns his curt nod before he and Emma disappear from the study as though they’d never been.


End file.
